Delirious, narcissistic boy
by Ninok
Summary: He wonders. He wonders why he's so close to a machine now, why it feels like Xana is still inside of him. Why is his mind so broken down? He isn't depressive. He doesn't have issues, at least not with himself. He knows who he is. He is William Dunbar. How come does he feel like he's a part of Xana? Ah, the possession really wrecked him.


You thought I wouldn't write in code lyoko again did you? well me either to be honest.

this is the biggest mind fuckery I've ever written. For real it's so fucked up. the weirdest shit. I needed to vent in september so I started this and then I got semi inspired by perelka-l drawing so I changed a bit the ending and? idk. please leave me comments, tell me what you think of this kind of things I'll probably never write again cause god. wow.

also note the capitalization of XANA/Xana is important

* * *

Sometimes life can be really funny, because the last time he got possessed was when he finally realized he'd been conscious the whole time. He was just blocking every single perception, every memory he could have. So of course they came back during nightmares, strange visions he was already familiar with because he'd lived them. Dreadful actions he knew he did as XANA's puppet, but actions he never thought he'd seen. Just dreams, right? Just dreams. Fiction. None of this can actually hurt him because it's not real. It doesn't really exist.

(He thought that once, in front of the Scyphozoa. He never did again)

At some times, in the few days he'd lived after he came back on Earth as himself – but not free, not really – it was hard to tell apart reality and fiction. What was real exactly? Lyoko was real. XANA was real. His life was real.

Or was it? It certainly didn't feel like it was.

Was this world really what he'd been wishing to come back to all this time, when he was imprisoned, barely conscious and so very alone? Because right now, it seemed very dull. Boring. Strange.

Out of place. It took William two days to realize how much of a stranger he was in this new world that wasn't new in itself, where he'd lived until his sixteen year, yet that still felt completely weird. Was he absent all this time? What had happened to the world when he wasn't here?

(What'd happened to himself? The cocky, arrogant, confident boy who thought he could do almost everything? Why was he so broken down now?)

XANA talked to the lonely boy. William swore he heard the voice very clearly, while he was watching himself hurting Yumi and Ulrich by his own hands. Not willingly, as he was merely a spectator behind the thin veil of control he couldn't get past. He didn't try though. William remembers not fighting at all this time. He was too weak. Numb. He didn't feel anything except for the grandiose emptiness drowning him. He didn't even try to take the control over his body back. He didn't want to.

XANA laughed, mocked. But not him. Once again he felt as if he was a forgotten entity, as if the words weren't even directed to him. Until the voice became louder, crushing the bubble of silence and emptiness. Suddenly, it was all about this tone, only in his head. But then XANA was only in his head. No physical form. XANA lived through him, acted through him. And he didn't care.

The words were hard to grasp, fleeing from him. And yet he could understand everything.

 _Your only purpose is to be used  
You belong to me_

William nodded, except that he didn't really. But he couldn't tell the difference anymore between his imagination and the reality.

* * *

He thought he would stay like this forever. He remembers not even watching the outside of his bubble, only remaining in this permanent state of almost unconsciousness. Until he was pushed throughout this veil.

He suddenly got the control over his body back and he panicked so much he screamed. He fell on his knees, yelling desperately, awfully lost and triggered. It was too much, a too violent change.

It didn't get better, because it never does. After some time – minutes, seconds, hours? He couldn't hear the clock ticking – his chest started to ache. To burn. He curled up on himself as much as he could, the intense desire to puke becoming far too strong for him to control his body reflexes. He didn't think, he couldn't, the pain was eating him alive. As if he was losing all his blood. As if he was being eviscerated, slowly. The torture never ended and he _screamed, he **screamed**_.

He remembers falling on his back this time. He remembers something escaping from his mouth.

He remembers the distinctive, dreadful feeling of dying. It hurt until it didn't anymore and he was dying.

He didn't feel his carnal shell anymore. He was dying.

He didn't breathe anymore. He was dying.

He didn't hear anything anymore. He was dying.

And he fell into the black bottom.

 _[I never want to wake up]_

* * *

But life is cruel, far crueler than the reality of death. So he wakes up. Lost, confused, alone. An awful emptiness eating his insides. It still felt as if he was slowly dying. And he was so cold… He remembers noticing he was on the ground, and all his muscles ached. He remembers never wanting to move, but doing it anyway because he had no choice once he was awake. Only the dead don't move, the living always run.

On the factory. Alone. Dirty, desperate. His clothes half torn, some small parts scattered haphazardly over the ground. A strange pile of hair abandoned on the floor like everything else.

Odd. He doesn't remember pulling at it. He doesn't remember clinging desperately to himself either He probably did, though. There is no other explanation.

And then he realizes. He is alone there. They seriously- The self-called proud Lyoko Warriors who blamed him so much to be so reckless (they were right), who were so hesitant to give him a second chance, who decided to leave him behind to observe the end really left this time. They left without a care. They killed XANA, and forgot about William lying unconscious on the floor. Will they feel ashamed the next time they see him at school, or won't they give a fuck? Probably the latter.

Wait.

XANA is dead. XANA is dead, and he is alive. In this moment it wasn't him. It wasn't him who died. It was XANA. **Xana is dead** , _he is alive_.

(So why does it feel like it's the contrary?)

But he can't get rid of the giant hole in his chest.

* * *

Life is stupid, really, because a few days later he finds himself in the hospital. Pneumonia, they said. Probably from lying for so many hours on the factory's icy floor during a particularly cold day (he hadn't counted the hours, but it was day when they entered and it was in the early hours of mornings when he woke up. Far too much time.).

Just a bad cold they say, and the woman repeats the same words. She mourns for him as if he was on his deathbed, and William has never felt so aggravated in his whole life. Annoyed by the adults who call themselves his parents (they are). Once, William cared for them. Loved them and wanted them by his side. Now, it was as if they weren't even related anymore, as if no connection was left between them.

He'd grown apart from everybody, the dark haired boy realizes and it hurts because Lyoko really ruined him. Except that he was the one, the only one at fault for falling in this trap.

[He realizes he doesn't need anything or anybody to fuck up his life. He does it very well by himself]

He's alone. He's alone because he can't stand anyone especially these adults and _they don't visit_. Of course, what did he expect? The "Lyoko Warriors" are too busy enjoying their free time now that they don't have to run to the factory all the time and shutting down the Super Computer. It's the content of the only message he receives from Yumi.

Odd did leave one too, on how he hoped the older would get better soon. Aelita's are more frequent, but full of an irritating optimism he can't ever accept. Especially since they left him on the floor, especially considering how it feels like an end for him when it's a new beginning for the other teens. But himself has no more chances in starting again. No more hope, one could say.

He makes a fair point at answering none of them. He grows tired. He doesn't care.

[He is numb again.]

* * *

When he eventually gets out of the hospital, it seems nobody even notices. Well, of course his parents did, as well as the director telling him he was failing, but everyone ignores the once popular kid, the model for the young who wanted to be respected without being part of any band. Ha, nobody admires the lonely kid without anchor nor strings pulling at him anymore. It seems he's truly considered as a failure by all the people, half a prankster because of the clone (but William does not blame the creation who only had one purpose and was discarded when it was no longer needed) and half a depressive guy.

He isn't depressive though. He doesn't dream of slitting his wrist and make his blood pour.

He spaces out though, when he can no longer stand anything around him. More often than not, to be honest. Sometimes for such long periods his classmates must shake him to make him remember he has to leave the classroom, before the teacher yells. Except that they never do, even when he doesn't answer.

William had heard the rumors on him. They were many, but some were bitter because he was getting a "favorite treatment". The teachers never got angry when they notice him not listening or paying any attention.

Everybody sighs around him, while he panics, panics because he never seems to be in control of anything. Except that he never freaks out when he blanks out, but when he's torn away far too abruptly from the blissful ignorance, the relaxing and familiar emptiness he can't get rid of anyway and he'd grown to like more than consciousness, the feeling or having absolutely no link to the reality just like the day he **[died]**.

Once again, they don't talk to him. Jeremy is too awkward, unknown to him and Aelita is still far too sweet and positive, so much it hurts because he'd do anything to be able to share these thoughts, he just wants to fit in, to be normal. To be anything else than this broken form, writhing on the ground every time he gets vision (memories). Epilepsy isn't the best thing that happened to him, but he knows exactly why it is.

Everybody can all see he's not here. His surroundings tend to melt down and he finds himself as if in a dream except that it is reality. It is, isn't it? And yet, his vision is fuzzy more often than not, and sometimes object changes size out of nowhere. His hearing is affected too, slow, faded as a bad recording except that it's live because he is in his body and somebody is talking, there is no recording…

So why does it feel like he is not? Like he is floating outer space, in this bubble again, and that his carnal shell is half empty already?

His perceptions are betraying him, he realizes, and it's somehow not even surprising. It was a wonder what exactly was still functioning normally about him. Certainly not his memory at least. It was completely deficient, whether it would be about the usual classes he had to take everyday or rare interactions he got with other people. He didn't remember anything about them after a few days. It is half a pain, half a relief. It bothered him at first, but then he thought it couldn't be too bad. After all, if he couldn't remember the mockery, the harsh hisses and the bodies bumping on him, it wasn't so bad.

But then, he couldn't remember either if he was ever doing something strange, which was why he could only stare at the blood trails on his sheets, on the wall followed with nails craving with mild concern.

It quickly turned to curiosity though.

And then, to indifference.

* * *

There was one time, where he tried. He tried to see if he could feel just a bit better about himself, about everything. If he could get Xana out of his head, for just one minute. If he could stop being so damn paranoid about everything, jumping at loud noises and having this awful feeling of dread following him almost every day, as if something ominously looming over him was about to crash on his face.

Razor's sharp blade, able to cut through most things, especially skin. He does it in the way he can only thing of, deep cuts threading his arms, like vines wrapping themselves on it. Except that they'd have to be engraved on his skin, going through the wounds, entering his body to slowly, slowly choke him…

It felt painful. Even more so than usual, and William didn't understand how it was supposed to make him feel better. Crimson liquid he ignored. An inconvenience, staining his clothes. The injuries started to throb and he stopped.

Weird. Weird weird weird that he'd craved for it but didn't even feel remotely satisfied about what he'd just done. Nor ashamed either, mind you. He didn't care enough for that, just because he harmed himself willingly, out of an impulse.

But he wondered. He wondered how come the physical pain was supposed to quiet his mind, because it sure as hell didn't. It was so useless, cutting himself for the sake of nothing at all. Not even the blood fascination. Just a strong need, an envy so deeply embed into him he couldn't do anything but satisfy it. Except that it didn't feel good. It didn't feel so bad either though. Just, neutral. Usual. As if he was watching the clouds.

Empty.

So he didn't repeat the experience ever again.

* * *

The nightmares are so frequent William can't even remember the time when he didn't wake up every night – or almost, maybe, he didn't know – gasping for the air that was entering and leaving his lungs absolutely normally, but leaving a shallow feeling. A tricky perception that it wasn't enough to ensure his survival. His brain (memory) was turning against him, attacking his weak points whenever it could, replaying the dreadful, horrifying sensation he never stops wishing for it to disappear.

The first ones left him completely wrecked, letting out piercing, pathetic, desperate screams that everybody could hear yet nobody wanted to listen to, absolutely terrified. The only time Jeremy entered his room, he had a panic attack at the sight of his too young face, tired out by years and hours of work on the computer he could never leave, the remnants of his dreams wanting nothing more than tear the flesh and unintentionally the programmer made it far worse for William to handle. He could handle dreams, visions he refused to call memories at first but could only recognize them at some if he was honest with himself, but the desire for blood, the instinct to kill, the muscles clenching, ready to swing the blade he didn't have anymore… It was too much at once, a nature he **couldn't** acknowledge as his own.

This wasn't him, this wasn't him, he wasn't a monster who slaughtered without mercy, who wanted to tear apart his enemies-  
 _They weren't even enemies anymore god._ Jeremy was just a boy, a boy one year younger than him and they had nothing in common outside of the Lyoko experience but this wasn't something he could ever mention because there was nobody to share it with, it was a burden he'd carry alone, always alone, and as usual he was too weak to face his problems so he fled them. Lyoko never happened. He had no link with Jeremy.

But then, when the lost blond tried to comfort him by asking questions he wouldn't ever be willing to answer, when he whispered it was alright, it was just a dream, the denial couldn't remain because his right fist tightened so much nails scrapped skin open, letting droplets of the crimson liquid he wanted so badly to spill and his other hand actually gripped Jeremy's collar (thanks god he had enough self control not to aim for the throat), so close to choking him and **this couldn't ever be him**.

This was XANA, nothing more. This wasn't him, this wasn't him so why was it his body again, now that he had all freedom in his moves, is it because he'd never been so different from Xana? Is it because he might ever be a part of Xana?

Somewhere in the line he started to scream again but Jim – who slammed the door open without William even _noticing_ – stopped him before he could clutch at his hair, grabbing his wrists and slapping his face to snap him out of it because no words seemed enough to calm him down  
but the boy couldn't even see Jeremy checking in his laptop if by any chance it would be XANA's fault (and he missed the point because it was, but only because himself merged as the only living part left of Xana) neither the many students accumulating around his room, circling him just to see what was going on and gossip on it later; because everything around him had blurred into a dark mane moving around, twisting too quickly  
and there was just so much noise in his mind he couldn't walk with, it was reaching out to him without any way of escape and he wanted to curl up, lie down as the ultimate way to protect himself – both physically and mentally, though it was his soul which was screaming endlessly, ripped apart – but he couldn't even control his own body anymore and this time it wasn't reassuring at all, because the abrupt, harsh perceptions were still there when he wanted nothing more than to **get rid of them.**

A tranquilizer was the only that took him down this night, and none after. They sent him to a therapist, who asked for his dreams. But what could he say? How could he tell that every night he woke up in cold sweat, never getting used to the memories but screaming less and less with each night passing to the point where he would simply sob by himself, clutching forcefully at his pillow as if it could help his sanity remain, crying far too much because he was so so weak? How could he say that Clément Durant hurt no less than Lucas Arsène and Marianne Guillaut?

All the scientists came up to him, all the too talented men and women XANA couldn't possess, all the people he had to kill and had fun cutting up while a part of him never stopped grieving, even when he couldn't make sound anymore. Pictures burned behind his eyelids, all the dead against him, blaming him for their death because he was the only one responsible. Because he had killed them.

How could he say that his dreams were filled with the blood he'd shed, with the corpses he had tear life from? How could he say that all the nightmares were memories, awful recollections he remembers **enjoying** as perfectly horrible as it sounds?

He had killed many people. He'd murdered, with his own hands, and he liked it.

And there is no way to say he won't ever again.

[He can't make the vow he won't ever kill anymore, because it's a promise he can't know if he'll be able to follow, as the urges for blood are violent and irresistible, almost impossible to ignore, much less deny]

He accepts the dreams as a part of him, as he always does. There's no use in fighting what he is anyway.

(you filthy _**killer**_ )

* * *

There's a time where he finds himself facing someone that couldn't ever be considered as somebody else than him. Even if it was Xana who possessed him through this body, giving him a darker theme, technically it was nobody else than him.

It couldn't be in fact, not with this self sufficient smirk, not with the sheer cockiness of it he'd lost since a long time, not with the raven locks falling on broad shoulders – far less tense than his that give the impression he wants to curl up on himself all the time – when his are going far too long, dirty. William doesn't take much care of himself, because he thinks it does not matter. It should be important, but somehow it's just an inconvenience drown in his ocean of indifference.

Perhaps it should hurt, to see his past self. Perhaps it's supposed to sting, to compare himself to this arrogant boy who was him not so long ago, now that he's so fucked up and broken down. Should he feel ashamed to have grown up, to have memorized a trauma? He feels guilty, but not for being so unstable. He cannot fix himself after all.

His past self was lively, but inexperienced and so very stupid. If only he knew, right? Right, right, how much pain could it have prevented? How would he be now, if he knew at that time? Different. Less utterly messed up. But it's only possibilities, because he didn't know and he got caught. As he is now, he won't run to fight any danger, quite the contrary. Does it make him a coward, not wanting to face danger? Maybe, but he sure as hell doesn't care.

And yet it was familiar, watching the figure move, as if he was out of his body again, floating in space and watching as a mere bystander impossible to reach by everything and everyone. He still has his carnal shell though, he realizes as chilly goosebumps raise on his arms when the other (himself) approaches slowly, the sound of his footsteps echoing all around the room and somehow it triggers a particular sensation into William's mind. Satisfaction. Gratification. Pleasure.

A violent shudder breaks through him when both of their skin touch, like a wonderful delight he'd never experienced yet.

But then, the other's hand is on the top of his head and William really can't help giggling like a child for a few minutes, because everything in this situation is completely ridiculous and surreal like a dream that might be as fucked up as him. And yet, when his alter ego starts talking, it's as if he's taking a deep, deep breath after holding it for far too long. A relevance.

"I wished I could see you and here you are. Welcome at your only home, William."

Needless to say, he is far too stunned to answer. But there is something warm slowly raising in his chest, and it feels nice. Comforting. It feels as if he's alive.

"I don't really have a name but… I guess you can call me Will."

It's as if the carbon copy could read his thoughts, understand the awkwardness of talking to someone perfectly similar to him and it feels comforting. So great to be finally even slightly comprehended. He is truly lonely, so much he wants to cry right now that there is actually someone for him, someone who knows, who listens.

He'd missed it. He'd missed human presence, he'd missed the feeling of belonging he never got since he was back to Earth. Why doesn't anybody care? Why can't he even talk, he can't even get himself to feel better because his lips are sealed and nobody has the key. Is it fear, or grief that prevents him from sharing anything about how he feels? He doesn't know, but it stings. In his chest, it stings and it only increases the size of the giant hole of emptiness eating up at him.

At least the Lyoko Warriors have each other. But he doesn't. He doesn't have anybody for this, he's alone and nobody can help him to feel less awful.

(But then, doesn't he deserve it from being such a filth, so disgustingly reckless and uncaring, dangerous for everybody?)

Nobody, nobody, nobody he is alone.

But not anymore, because someone is stroking gently his hair, as if he were still a child, and somehow it's soothing. It's really comforting, because for once he can't be a disappointment, not for someone who doesn't expect anything from him, who doesn't ask him anything.

It's so relaxing out of this world, William never wants to go back to it. It's so calm, when there is only him and his double (he can't call him clone, can't bring himself to push the other down at the level of a simple reproduction) he ends up wanting more, more of this.

 _**[And it's the beginning of his far too rapid downfall]** _

* * *

The whisper doesn't take long to come. One day maybe, he doesn't know. He still has difficulties remembering days, dates or anything happening to him actually, no matter if it's slightly important or not. It feels as if reality is slowly slipping away from his grasp, and he doesn't care enough to try desperately to grab it back. Once, he insisted on being grounded, his feet and mind nowhere else but on Earth. Once, he was a materialist. Now he was just broken, trying to seek refuge in blissful ignorance.

[What he doesn't know can't hurt him. As long as he doesn't remember how hard he's tugging his hair or how much damage sharp nails can do on tender skin, everything is fine.]

Maybe the snickering, merciful sound forever sniffling in his ears had never not been there, maybe it wasn't existing, not even today. It could be that he was imagining it. Frankly, it would be neither a (surprise) or an issue. Who cared about those details after all? It was so hard to figure out, and surely he didn't care enough to try.

[Maybe the most concerning thing was how numb and uninterested he was growing towards the outer world]

How strange though.

It should aggravate him, shouldn't it? It definitely should, nobody would be comfortable with an invisible presence breathing over their shoulder. Yet the lulling hiss was more calming, soothing, than anything else. It was probably what saved him the most these days, trying so hard not to just break down.

In fact it seemed so natural he saw no reason to reject it. No reason not to listen to it.

 _How annoying_ , the voice says when he's aggravated.

 _What a pity they ignore you. You're worth far more than them_ ; it says sometimes, when he's truly lonely, trembling violently and not even bothering to look at himself. For all he knows he is wallowing in his self misery, and he doesn't need to see how wretched he'd grown.

 _I'm sorry you've been getting hurt. I won't let them anymore_ ; the whispers reaches his ears when he's lying on the ground, injured and never wanting to get up again. The voice expresses concern, desire of protection. Isn't it quite what he needs right now? When he's already broken down enough by himself, of course barely new high school students wouldn't make it better. But then if he wasn't so much of a freak, this kind of things wouldn't happen.

If he didn't jump at every single noise, if he didn't space out like someone who barely had his feet on Earth, if he didn't scream so often, every time he got a vivid vision. If he wasn't so utterly fucked up, a half depressive half numb insomniac…

If he were more normal, this wouldn't happen. If he weren't so much of a stranger, for everybody and especially himself, the group of 11th graders wouldn't have come to him to beat him up. Did they have this intention from the beginning? William didn't know.

But he just wanted to stay down. If he kept lying on this dirty, hard ground that seemed like the most fitted place for someone as fucking weird as him, he couldn't fall. Right? Nobody could push him down the edge of whatever he could handle, it would be alright. Let him degrade himself, drag himself down so nobody else can. Even if he gets up, let him still pretend he was writhing on the floor and it would be fine.

It would be, it would be.

So why did he start dreaming to hurt them? When did his most dangerous, murderous inner desires became so important, so uncontrollable that he'd find himself sometimes clenching his fists so hard he would create droplets of blood without caring the slightest, only wishing he could tear apart all those who had wronged him, rip their skin, slice open- Wait what?

 _** What? ** _

Was that?

When did he become so vicious?

Why was he so destructive now?

Blade running oh so close to their necks, slicing just slightly to make them panic so much, playing with their lives until it would be cruelly be drove in the throat, cutting vocal cords and…

" **NO!** " he'd screamed out of the blue again, startling a few towards him who only spare him a mildly surprised glance before turning away, used to his antics; while he's panicking because his imagination gets far too wild and it seems almost real, almost as if he truly wanted to skin them alive and it's gross and terrifying.

He doesn't remember losing control over himself so much before.

Until then, the whisper often becomes impossible to understand, just sweet nothings that always seem to calm him down and encourage himself, make him feel even slightly better about himself. It also increases the intensity of his emotions. It's terrifying, at least it should be. It should, shouldn't it? But then, he had grown quite different from social norms. Behavioral norms.

 _Human habits?_

Yeah.

And the whisper lulls him.

* * *

 _You're strong, so strong. But you're shattered in so many parts you can't even find them, let alone pick them and try to fix them. No need to worry, my killing machine. I'll take care of this for you. You don't have to be so afraid, I won't let you destroy your almost perfect self. Let me forge you again, boy, turn you in the most efficient, flawless creation._

William doesn't even wonder when the whisper became a part of him, the second person turning into himself solely. His inner thoughts, his point of view. His ideals. He needed to be foolproof, he needed to be changed to become impeccable for himself, for _**himself**_ and nobody else. He had to be melt and shaped again, into **something** far better than what he was right now. And he'd do it himself, because nobody else would be able to build him more impeccably than himself. Except Xana, of course. But Xana was no more.

(Strange then. Why was he thinking again of it? Huh.)

* * *

It goes on as far as it could, until he suddenly finds himself back in this path he loathes once again. It's not that he particularly wants it, he tells himself, but somewhere there's a lie; because the hole is still growing, clawing deeper and deeper in his stomach and now most of the time it hurts. Awfully so. He gets used to the pain, but it still feels as though life was sucked out of him, ever so slowly, ever so surely. Could it ever be considered normalcy, even after such a long time? There is a doubt, but he isn't sure it's from him.

He still feels like screaming when he locks himself up in the elevator, especially when it starts moving, and it feels like a long, never ending drop. He didn't think _that_ would make him claustrophobic, but it's the only possibility why he's so terrified.

[Or maybe he's afraid of finding something. Or maybe he's afraid of finding _nothing_ , that nothing mattered because there was **nothing** left there.]

Leaving the cramped lift is nothing short of relieving, and he finds himself a bit less tense. Though he still is, because there is no reason for him to be back in the freezing room, watching the machine get out of the ground as a purely devil made machinery, and he knows he should leave. He should, but he doesn't because the fear is solely corporal and his body is the most useless thing these days. His mind is more reliable, even though it's utterly broken down.

For the moment though, it is empty. Almost hopelessly so, but it makes him so akin to the machine right in front of him and somehow it's not so unpleasant. He doesn't know what he's searching for anymore. Does he even have to? Can't he just stop feeling, stop thinking?

 _Wouldn't it be so easier, boy?_

It definitely would be better for him. Somehow it's wonderful how peaceful it can be to stop thinking. He finds dissociation to be bliss and knows it's merely a side effect of the possession, but he doesn't really care.

He doesn't mind anyone watching his body act by itself without him asking it to move. There was a time where it disturbed him, alarmed him not to be in control of his own flesh, and now it's the only thing he's searching for; because he doesn't want the harsh perceptions, the pain, the abrupt memories or lack of and the sight of this dull, destructive world.

He would trade everything to get this peace of mind again, to float into a blank space without anything to grip at, because there's nothing interesting he'd want to catch.

Ah, it really messed him, because he's thinking again how he wants to be back in that place with Will. Without anything else than a person with so much empathy it stings (but then everything does so it's no breaking news); because he's too much of a weakling he can't even handle loneliness when he's just started to live through it.

[He might have lost his mind without the clone, which was so very paradoxical because of the toxic influence Will has on him that doesn't – and won't ever – help]

And without realizing it, the handle is pulled towards him, violently, with something akin to an animal impulse. The whole room glows bright, a cold glimmer reflecting his eyes which stopped glittering long ago, as the grooves light up with an electronic sound and it feels like going back to life after months of sleep (coma). The super calculator makes cringing noises in contact of all the dust around it, but nothing escapes from it.

William waits, feeling even more desperate with each second ticking on his watch (the one on his mind: the wrist's one doesn't even exist), time mocking him endlessly like everything else, and almost throws himself on the elevator when nothing, **nothing** comes, pressing frantically against the button while the machine takes all the time in the world to close and go back to the ground floor.

When the doors finally open again (after an eternity spent suffering with the despair that _nothing is coming_ ), he rushes to the computer, and without knowing anything to Lyoko's code, still manages to turn it on and mess a bit with the keyboard, without having a clue of what he is doing but somehow it changes things. Structures appears on the screen, as if he created them though it's utterly **impossible** because he doesn't know _anything_ to computer code and there's no way he could create things with his own hands, it's a trick, just a trick.

A visual trick. An auditive trick trying to deceive him. But still, it's painfully silent, outside of the computer's noises, protesting at the amount of work he was suddenly granted with, asked to be done as quickly as possible using all the available resources. It appears a scan is launched, but without any results and William doesn't understand, he can't even start to comprehend a thing.

But a realization eventually downs on him. There is absolutely nothing left in this place. He can stay as long as he wants, try as many things as he wants, it wouldn't change a damn thing because **nothing is coming**. Nothing at all. Whatever he's searching for doesn't exist anymore in this place.

(Xana is dead for a long time, it would be time for him to understand that. He's dead, and he's not coming back despite the nostalgia, despite the pain and the hate, he's just dead. Erased. No more.  
No more no morenomorenomore NO  
ERROR SYSTEM, the program couldn't be launched. The resource doesn't exist _in this computer_ anymore)

He tries everything he can, and this night could definitely be defined as his biggest failure as everything he attempts leads to nothing. No matter how much he tries to force the dissociation because this time he can't handle it anymore, he really really can't, it doesn't work. Of course of course of fucking course. It's not like it was on demand or anything.

He slits his arms open without any doubt in his mind, desperate so utterly hopeless but just starting to taste the edge of how true, complete despair really feels and it's too much, far too much for his aimless body and his damaged mind who wants to stop, block but can't, can't, can't. He needs to stop thinking, he needs to stop feeling he can't remain like this it's so so much at once and his hybrid self, between a panicking human and a machine failing to understand just **can't stand this** it's impossible, impossible he can't remain like this he needs a relief absolutely before he loses his mind that he'd be working so much to improve, to make it less sensitive and more effective, he can't lose all his progress now, he can't start back from the zero point he has to get rid of all the worthless, harmful feelings and thoughts that make him malfunction.  
But nothing, nothing works and that's how he ends up with a syringe firmly dug in his forearm, the substance inside already running through his veins, his mind finally, finally at peace and not one regret on his mind.

It becomes the only useful solution when his still too defective system starts to overheat.

 _It's fine. All machines need breaks._

* * *

He only sees himself in dreams. He can't tell if the other exists, if Xana exists. No, Xana doesn't. It isn't Xana, Will isn't.

He'd gone so far he can't even distinguish the whisper as a distinctive thing separated from him, Xana's voice forever following him. He deems it as a part of his entity, the third part barely consolidating the useless, rotten physical shell and the broken, yet so efficient mind that don't have any link anymore if it weren't for the third part putting them together.

He doesn't even care about all of this though, because for a moment he can be at home. In the dark, silent bubble. With someone who knows his misery.

"William. You're back." the other says, but he doesn't sound disappointed in him like everyone else he talks to. He is neutral, almost happy.

William can't let himself think it's an illusion. He can't reject the only person who shows a bit of interest in his presence, who would almost want to see him. He can't think it's misguided, to believe the clone would be glad to see him. He can't think none of this is real.

Because reality is already far too inaccessible to grasp it back and everything aches, except for these moments.

He just wants the pain to stop. He wants to be back home. And this is the only place he can call like this.

"I hate this life. I **hate it** , I _h_ **ate** it so _**much**_."

The other waits, a hint of a smile always tugging at his lips.

"Please take me away."

There, he truly smirks. William thinks it could look good on himself, if he wasn't so broken down all the time. But who cares, who cares about how he smiles. He just want to go back to unconsciousness. It's too hard, far too hard.

Will approaches him, walking slowly and William doesn't back away. For once, he thinks, he is in control of his decisions. Funny thing it's the time where he asks to stop having to live.

So funny his whole existence has this biting irony he wants to slap away.

The _clone_ embraces him, wraps himself almost lovingly around him like a vine, his breath tickling William's scalp. Somehow, the only feeling it brings is peacefulness, and deep, intense satisfaction with blinding sparks of pleasure and it feels so right, until a pair of lips lock on his neck and it feels like acid making his flesh dissolve into nothingness.

The pain only increases and increases, burning his whole body, leaving him gaping deeply broken down both physically and mentally while the sting never stops, spreading to his whole body like a disease and once again the sensations are too much but this time he doesn't have the drug, there's only the body similar to him to claw on. Skin is scratched desperately, manically while his nails try to dig and provide a support but can't and he's an utter failure again he can't do anything and there is laughter ringing in his head, everywhere as if it never left and he recognizes it, he really does but it makes no sense because it always needed his own body to create the sound…

Oh, he hadn't even noticed he was half screaming, half laughing, completely wrecked and not himself but at the same time awakened as he had never been as black smokes infiltrates his body from every place possible, and he's gagging, writhing not exactly on the floor, not in control of himself as he'd never been, his grip on himself lessening more and more until he's left arching under the invisible hands of an irresistible force, entering his body and there's black, black everywhere he can look, his whole body bursting in flame, and his spine cracks at the improbable angle it's being pushed to…

Something snaps, but it's definitely not his bones.

And he doesn't remember what happens next.

* * *

Alive? Alive? Alive?

Is Xana alive?

No.

Are you alive?

No.

Fade fade fade fade fade. You don't need to know.


End file.
